Chapter Forty Two.An Unknown Correspondent.After the atrocious cruelty that deprived him of a finger, two days more of gloomy imprisonment was passed by Henry Harding in his prison. The coarse fare by day and hard couch by night, even the loss he had sustained, were not to be compared with the anguish of his spirit.In this lay the pangs of his captivity. The chagrin caused by his father’s refusal to ransom him was bitter to bear. His brother’s letter had placed the refusal in its worst light. He felt as if he had no friend—no father.He suffered from a reflection less selfish, and yet more painful—an apprehension for the safety of his friend’s sister. There could be no mistaking what Corvino meant by the words whispered in his ear during that fearful scene; and he knew that the savage tragedy then enacted was but by way of preparation for the still more distressing episode that was to follow.Every hour, almost every minute, the captive might have been seen standing by the window of his cell, scrutinising what might transpire outside—listening with keen ear, apprehensive that in each new arrival at the rendezvous, he might discover the presence of Lucetta Torreani.Himself a prisoner, he was powerless to protect, even to give her a word of warning. Could he have sent her but one line to apprise her of the danger, he would have sacrificed not only another finger, but the hand by which it was written. He blamed himself for not having thought of writing to her father, at the time that he sent the letter to Luigi. It was an opportunity not likely to occur again. He could only hope that his letter to Luigi might be received in time—a slender reed to depend upon. He thought of trying to effect escape from his prison. Could he succeed in doing this, all might be well. But he had been thinking of it from the first—every hour during his confinement—thinking of it to no purpose. He made no attempt, simply because there was no means of making it. He had well examined the structure of his cell. The walls were stout masonwork of stone and stucco; the floor was a pavement of rough flags; the window a mere slit; the door strong enough to have withstood the blows of a trip-hammer. Besides, at night a brigand slept transversely across the entrance; while another kept sentry outside.A bird worth 30,000 scudi was too precious to be permitted the chance of escaping from its cage. His eyes had often turned upwards. In that direction seemed the only chance of escape at all possible. It might have been practicable had he been but provided with two things—a knife in his hand and a stool to stand upon. Strong beams stretched horizontally across. Over these was a sheeting of roughly-hewn planks, as if there was a second story above. But he knew it could only be a garret; for the boards were damp and mildewed, from the leaking of the roof over them. They looked rotten enough to have been easily cut through, if there had been but a chisel or knife to accomplish it. There was neither. Right and left, behind and before, below and above, egress appeared impracticable.On the second night after losing his little finger, he had ceased to think of it; and, with his mutilated hand wrapped in a rag, torn from the sleeve of his shirt—the only surgical treatment it received—he lay upon the floor, endeavouring in sleep to find a temporary respite from his wretchedness.He had to some extent succeeded; and was beginning to lose consciousness of his misery, when something striking him on the forehead startled him to fresh wakefulness. It was a hard substance that had hit him; and the blow caused pain, though not enough to draw from him any exclamation. He only raised himself on his elbow, and waited for a repetition of the stroke, or something that might explain it. While listening attentively, he heard a sound, as if some light missile had been flung through the window, and fallen on the floor, not far from where he lay.He looked to see what it could have been. There was no light, save what came from a star-lit sky—sent still more sparingly through the narrow aperture in the wall—so, of course, the floor of the chamber was in deep obscurity. Notwithstanding this, an object of oblong shape was revealed upon it, distinguishable by its white colour. The captive, on clutching it, could tell it was a piece of paper, folded in the form of a letter. Supposing it to be one, he was hindered for the time from perusing it; and he remained holding it in his hand, but without making any movement. Meanwhile he kept his eye upon the window, through which it had evidently come, to see whether anything else should enter by the same aperture.He watched for a full half hour; and, as nothing more seemed likely to be thrown in to him, he turned his attention to that which had at first startled him, and which he now imagined might be something projected into his cell after the fashion of the folded sheet. Groping over the floor, he became convinced of it. His hand came in contact with a knife! He felt that its blade was in a sheath, a covering of goat-skin, such as he had seen carried by the brigands. Without comprehending the intent of the unexpected presents, or from whom they had come, he could not help thinking there was a purpose in them; and, after watching the window another hour or so, he began conjecturing what this purpose might be.He was not very successful. A variety of hypotheses came before his mind, but none that satisfied him. Under the circumstances the gift of a keen-bladed knife suggested suicide; but that could hardly be the intent of the donor. At all events, the recipient, wretched as he was, did not feel himself reduced to quite such a state of despair. No doubt there was writing on the paper, and no doubt, could he have read it, it would have enlightened him. But there was no chance to do so, nor would there be until morning. His sense of touch was not sufficiently delicate to enable him to decipher it in the darkness, and there was no help for it but to wait for the dawn.He did wait till dawn, but not one instant after. As the first rays of the aurora came stealing through the aperture, he stood close to it, spreading the unfolded sheet upon the sill. There was writing. The words were Italian, and, fortunately, written in a bold, clerkly hand, though evidently in haste. In the translation it ran thus:—“You must make your escapeupwards, towards the zenith. There is no chance towards the horizon on any side. The knife will enable you to cut your way through the roof. And take care to slide off the back of the house, the sentry being in front. Once out, make for the pass by which you came up. You should remember it. It lies due north. If you need guiding, look for the Polar star. At the head of the gorge there is a picket. You may easily steal past him. If not—you have the knife! But, with proper caution, there need be no occasion for your using it. His duty is not much by night. He has only to listen to any signal that may be given from below. And his post is not in the gorge, but on the summit—to one side. You may easily creep into the ravine, and past, without his seeing you. At the mountain foot it is different. The sentry placed there is only for the night. In daytime he would be of no use—as the place can be seen from above in time to give warning of any approach. This man will be awake, as his life would be forfeited by his being found asleep. He would be concealed upon the edge of the ravine. You cannot pass, without his seeing you; and you must then use the knife. Don’t try to pass; he would have the advantage of seeing you first. Instead, conceal yourself in the ravine, and remain there till morning. At daybreak he will leave his post—as it is then no longer necessary to keep it. He comes up to the rendezvous. Wait till he has passed you; and also till he has got to the head of the gorge—longer if you like. Then make your way off as you best can. Go with all speed, for you will be seen and pursued. Make for the house where you stopped on your way hither. Save yourself! Save Lucetta Torreani!”The astonishment caused by this strange epistle hindered the reader from perceiving that there was a postscript. He saw it at length. It ran as follows:—“If you would also save the writer,swallow this note as soon as you have read it.”Having run it over again, to make sure of its meaning—and to memorise the instructions it contained—the postscript was almost litre rally complied with; and when the jailer entered the cell, bearing the usual breakfast of boiled macaroni, not a scrap of paper could be seen, nor anything to create suspicion. The prisoner only spoke of hunger; and began masticating the macaroni as though the tasteless stuff was the most savoury of dishes.
After the atrocious cruelty that deprived him of a finger, two days more of gloomy imprisonment was passed by Henry Harding in his prison. The coarse fare by day and hard couch by night, even the loss he had sustained, were not to be compared with the anguish of his spirit.
In this lay the pangs of his captivity. The chagrin caused by his father’s refusal to ransom him was bitter to bear. His brother’s letter had placed the refusal in its worst light. He felt as if he had no friend—no father.
He suffered from a reflection less selfish, and yet more painful—an apprehension for the safety of his friend’s sister. There could be no mistaking what Corvino meant by the words whispered in his ear during that fearful scene; and he knew that the savage tragedy then enacted was but by way of preparation for the still more distressing episode that was to follow.
Every hour, almost every minute, the captive might have been seen standing by the window of his cell, scrutinising what might transpire outside—listening with keen ear, apprehensive that in each new arrival at the rendezvous, he might discover the presence of Lucetta Torreani.
Himself a prisoner, he was powerless to protect, even to give her a word of warning. Could he have sent her but one line to apprise her of the danger, he would have sacrificed not only another finger, but the hand by which it was written. He blamed himself for not having thought of writing to her father, at the time that he sent the letter to Luigi. It was an opportunity not likely to occur again. He could only hope that his letter to Luigi might be received in time—a slender reed to depend upon. He thought of trying to effect escape from his prison. Could he succeed in doing this, all might be well. But he had been thinking of it from the first—every hour during his confinement—thinking of it to no purpose. He made no attempt, simply because there was no means of making it. He had well examined the structure of his cell. The walls were stout masonwork of stone and stucco; the floor was a pavement of rough flags; the window a mere slit; the door strong enough to have withstood the blows of a trip-hammer. Besides, at night a brigand slept transversely across the entrance; while another kept sentry outside.
A bird worth 30,000 scudi was too precious to be permitted the chance of escaping from its cage. His eyes had often turned upwards. In that direction seemed the only chance of escape at all possible. It might have been practicable had he been but provided with two things—a knife in his hand and a stool to stand upon. Strong beams stretched horizontally across. Over these was a sheeting of roughly-hewn planks, as if there was a second story above. But he knew it could only be a garret; for the boards were damp and mildewed, from the leaking of the roof over them. They looked rotten enough to have been easily cut through, if there had been but a chisel or knife to accomplish it. There was neither. Right and left, behind and before, below and above, egress appeared impracticable.
On the second night after losing his little finger, he had ceased to think of it; and, with his mutilated hand wrapped in a rag, torn from the sleeve of his shirt—the only surgical treatment it received—he lay upon the floor, endeavouring in sleep to find a temporary respite from his wretchedness.
He had to some extent succeeded; and was beginning to lose consciousness of his misery, when something striking him on the forehead startled him to fresh wakefulness. It was a hard substance that had hit him; and the blow caused pain, though not enough to draw from him any exclamation. He only raised himself on his elbow, and waited for a repetition of the stroke, or something that might explain it. While listening attentively, he heard a sound, as if some light missile had been flung through the window, and fallen on the floor, not far from where he lay.
He looked to see what it could have been. There was no light, save what came from a star-lit sky—sent still more sparingly through the narrow aperture in the wall—so, of course, the floor of the chamber was in deep obscurity. Notwithstanding this, an object of oblong shape was revealed upon it, distinguishable by its white colour. The captive, on clutching it, could tell it was a piece of paper, folded in the form of a letter. Supposing it to be one, he was hindered for the time from perusing it; and he remained holding it in his hand, but without making any movement. Meanwhile he kept his eye upon the window, through which it had evidently come, to see whether anything else should enter by the same aperture.
He watched for a full half hour; and, as nothing more seemed likely to be thrown in to him, he turned his attention to that which had at first startled him, and which he now imagined might be something projected into his cell after the fashion of the folded sheet. Groping over the floor, he became convinced of it. His hand came in contact with a knife! He felt that its blade was in a sheath, a covering of goat-skin, such as he had seen carried by the brigands. Without comprehending the intent of the unexpected presents, or from whom they had come, he could not help thinking there was a purpose in them; and, after watching the window another hour or so, he began conjecturing what this purpose might be.
He was not very successful. A variety of hypotheses came before his mind, but none that satisfied him. Under the circumstances the gift of a keen-bladed knife suggested suicide; but that could hardly be the intent of the donor. At all events, the recipient, wretched as he was, did not feel himself reduced to quite such a state of despair. No doubt there was writing on the paper, and no doubt, could he have read it, it would have enlightened him. But there was no chance to do so, nor would there be until morning. His sense of touch was not sufficiently delicate to enable him to decipher it in the darkness, and there was no help for it but to wait for the dawn.
He did wait till dawn, but not one instant after. As the first rays of the aurora came stealing through the aperture, he stood close to it, spreading the unfolded sheet upon the sill. There was writing. The words were Italian, and, fortunately, written in a bold, clerkly hand, though evidently in haste. In the translation it ran thus:—
“You must make your escapeupwards, towards the zenith. There is no chance towards the horizon on any side. The knife will enable you to cut your way through the roof. And take care to slide off the back of the house, the sentry being in front. Once out, make for the pass by which you came up. You should remember it. It lies due north. If you need guiding, look for the Polar star. At the head of the gorge there is a picket. You may easily steal past him. If not—you have the knife! But, with proper caution, there need be no occasion for your using it. His duty is not much by night. He has only to listen to any signal that may be given from below. And his post is not in the gorge, but on the summit—to one side. You may easily creep into the ravine, and past, without his seeing you. At the mountain foot it is different. The sentry placed there is only for the night. In daytime he would be of no use—as the place can be seen from above in time to give warning of any approach. This man will be awake, as his life would be forfeited by his being found asleep. He would be concealed upon the edge of the ravine. You cannot pass, without his seeing you; and you must then use the knife. Don’t try to pass; he would have the advantage of seeing you first. Instead, conceal yourself in the ravine, and remain there till morning. At daybreak he will leave his post—as it is then no longer necessary to keep it. He comes up to the rendezvous. Wait till he has passed you; and also till he has got to the head of the gorge—longer if you like. Then make your way off as you best can. Go with all speed, for you will be seen and pursued. Make for the house where you stopped on your way hither. Save yourself! Save Lucetta Torreani!”
“You must make your escapeupwards, towards the zenith. There is no chance towards the horizon on any side. The knife will enable you to cut your way through the roof. And take care to slide off the back of the house, the sentry being in front. Once out, make for the pass by which you came up. You should remember it. It lies due north. If you need guiding, look for the Polar star. At the head of the gorge there is a picket. You may easily steal past him. If not—you have the knife! But, with proper caution, there need be no occasion for your using it. His duty is not much by night. He has only to listen to any signal that may be given from below. And his post is not in the gorge, but on the summit—to one side. You may easily creep into the ravine, and past, without his seeing you. At the mountain foot it is different. The sentry placed there is only for the night. In daytime he would be of no use—as the place can be seen from above in time to give warning of any approach. This man will be awake, as his life would be forfeited by his being found asleep. He would be concealed upon the edge of the ravine. You cannot pass, without his seeing you; and you must then use the knife. Don’t try to pass; he would have the advantage of seeing you first. Instead, conceal yourself in the ravine, and remain there till morning. At daybreak he will leave his post—as it is then no longer necessary to keep it. He comes up to the rendezvous. Wait till he has passed you; and also till he has got to the head of the gorge—longer if you like. Then make your way off as you best can. Go with all speed, for you will be seen and pursued. Make for the house where you stopped on your way hither. Save yourself! Save Lucetta Torreani!”
The astonishment caused by this strange epistle hindered the reader from perceiving that there was a postscript. He saw it at length. It ran as follows:—
“If you would also save the writer,swallow this note as soon as you have read it.”
“If you would also save the writer,swallow this note as soon as you have read it.”
Having run it over again, to make sure of its meaning—and to memorise the instructions it contained—the postscript was almost litre rally complied with; and when the jailer entered the cell, bearing the usual breakfast of boiled macaroni, not a scrap of paper could be seen, nor anything to create suspicion. The prisoner only spoke of hunger; and began masticating the macaroni as though the tasteless stuff was the most savoury of dishes.
Chapter Forty Three.Cutting a Way Skyward.His jailer once gone out of the cell, the captive was left undisturbed to consider the plan of escape so unexpectedly proposed to him. The first question that occurred was: Who could the unknown writer be? It was evidently some one of a refined intelligence; the writing proved this, but more the method in which the instructions were conveyed. These were so cunningly conceived, and so clearly expressed, as to be quite intelligible to him for whom they were intended.At first he thought of its being some plot on the part of Corvino—aruseto give the chief a chance of recapturing him, and so taking him in the act of attempting to escape.Then came the reflection,Cui bono? Corvino could not want an excuse for taking his life. On the contrary, he had every reason for preserving it—at least until some definite answer about the ransom. If the demand should be again refused, the captive knew this would be plea sufficient for putting him to death. The threat of the brigand had been backed by the assurance given him in his conversation with the unfortunate Popetta. He no longer doubted of its being in earnest.It could not be Corvino who had furnished him with the means of escape. Who then? Certainly not his own countryman. The renegade was his bitterest enemy—ever foremost in persecuting him. Of all the band, his thoughts now turned to Tommaso, simply because there was no other who had shown him the slightest sign of sympathy. Tommaso had done so, during the two days of his attendance; but then he presumed it to be at the instance of the signorina. She was dead; and her influence must have perished along with her. What further interest could the man have in him?True, he seemed something different from his outlawed associates. He at least appeared less brutal than they—as if he had seen better days, and had not fallen so far below the normal condition of humanity. Henry Harding had noticed this during the slight communication held with him. Beside, there was evidence of it in the conversation he had heard under his window—in relation to the vile designs on Lucetta Torreani. But then—Tommaso’s motive for assisting him? And at such risk to himself! Death would be the reward of any of the band who might aid him in escape, or even connive at it—death sure and cruel. Why should Tommaso place himself in peril? What had he, Henry Harding, done to deserve the sympathy of this man? Nothing.The last word in the letter of instruction now occurred to him—not the postscript, but the closing sentence of the epistle itself—“Save Lucetta Torreani!”Was this the explanation? Could this be a clue to Tommaso’s conduct? If so, Tommaso was indeed the writer.It was at all events an injunction calculated to stimulate the prisoner to action. The thought of the girl’s danger was never for a moment out of his mind. Now that this scheme was brought before him, he ceased his conjectures, and gave himself up to considering how he should carry out the design suggested in such a mysterious manner.Plainly he could do nothing before night. Any attempt during daylight might be detected by his jailer, coming in with his food. The last meal having been brought him would be the cue for commencement.During the day he was not idle. He made careful survey of his cell, chiefly the woodwork overhead. The boards appeared in a dilapidated condition, as if they would easily give way to the blade of a knife. His chagrin was great in discovering that the ceiling was too high to be reached—nearly a foot beyond the tips of his fingers, held aloft to their fullest stretch. This was indeed something to disconcert him.He looked despairingly around the cell. There was nothing on which he could stand—neither stool nor stone—nothing to give him the necessary elevation. The chapter of instructions had been written in vain; the writer had not contemplated this difficulty in their fulfilment.For a moment the captive believed he would have to abandon the scheme. It seemed impossible of execution.Ingenuity becomes quickened under circumstances of dire necessity. In Henry Harding’s case this truth was illustrated. Once more scanning the floor of his cell, he perceived the litter of fern leaves that formed his stye-like couch. It might be possible to collect them into a lump, and so obtain the standpoint he required. In his mind he made a calculation of the quantity, and the probable height to which they would elevate him. He did not experiment practically, by massing the litter and so making a trial. Any disturbance of things might excite suspicion. That would be a task easily accomplished, and could be left to the last moment.And to the last moment it was left. As soon as the morose attendant took his departure for the night—though without even the salutation “Buono notte”—the captive set about carrying out his design.The fern leaves were collected into a heap and placed near the middle of the floor. He took great care in packing them, so as to form a firm cushion, and confining them within a small space, to increase the elevation. He had also observed the precaution, to select a spot under that part of the ceiling that appeared most assailable.The stage erected, he mounted on it, knife in hand. He could just reach the boards with his blade; but this appeared enough, and he commenced making an incision. As he conjectured, the wood was half decayed with damp, or dry rot, and gave way before the knife, which by good luck was a sharp one. But he had not worked long, when he found his support sinking gradually beneath him; and, before he had accomplished the tenth part of his task, the fern footstool had become so flattened that he was unable to proceed. He descended to the floor, rearranged it, and then recommenced his cutting and carving. All in silence, or with the least noise possible; for there was his knowledge of a sharp-eared sentry in the ante-chamber, and another keeping guard close by the window of his cell.Again the cushion sank, with only another fraction of the task accomplished. Again was it repadded; and the work proceeded for another short spell.A new idea now helped him to keep on continuously. He took off his coat, folded it into a thick roll, placed it on the summit of the fern heap, and then set his feet upon it. This gave him a firmer pedestal to stand upon, enabling him to complete the task he had undertaken. In fine, he succeeded in cutting a trap-like hole through the floor-boards, big enough for his body to be passed through.It was done before twelve o’clock. He could tell this by the brigands still keeping up their carousal outside. Hitherto the sound of their voices had favoured him, drowning any noise he might have made, otherwise audible to the sentries. Moreover, these were less on the alert during the earlier hours.About midnight all sounds ceased, and the band seemed to have gone to sleep. It was time for him to continue the attempt at escape. Putting on his coat, he caught hold of one of the joists, and drew himself up through the hole he had cut. Above, as anticipated, he found himself in a sort of garret-loft.He commenced groping around for some means of egress. At first he could find none, and supposed the space to be enclosed without any aperture. His head coming in contact with the roof, he perceived it to be a thatch of either straw or rushes. He was planning how he should cut his way through it, when a glimmer of light came under his eye, falling faintly along the floor.Approaching the aperture where it was admitted, he discovered a sort of dormer window, without glass, but closed by a dilapidated shutter. There was no bar, and the shutter turned open to the outside. He looked cautiously through, and scanned the ground beneath, as also the premises adjoining. He saw that it was the back of the house, and that there were no others in the rear. There was no light, or anything, to show that human beings were astir.He could perceive a clump of trees standing a short distance off, and others straggling up the sides of the mountain. If he could succeed in getting under this cover, without disturbing the men who kept guard over his cell, he would stand a good chance of escape, at least so far as the first line of sentries was concerned. As to those keeping the pass, that would be an enterprise altogether distinct. To get clear of his prison was the thing now to be thought of; and he proceeded to take his measures. How to creep through the dormer window and let himself down outside were naturally the first questions that suggested themselves.The night was dark, though with a sky grey and starry. It was the sombre gloom that in all its obscurity shrouded the extinguished crater. He could not see the ground beneath; but, knowing how high he had climbed into the garret, the descent could not be a very deep one, unless indeed the house stood on the edge of some scarped elevation. The thought of this caused him to hesitate; and, once more craning his neck over the sill, he endeavoured to penetrate the obscurity below. But he could not see the ground, and as it would not do to remain any longer, he turned face inwards, and, backing through the window, let his legs drop down the wall. A wooden bar placed tranversely across the sill, seemed to offer the proper holding place for his hands. He grasped it to balance his body for the fall; but the treacherous support gave way, and he fell in such fashion as to throw him with violence on his shoulder.He was stunned, and lay still—in what appeared to be the bottom of a drain or trench. Fortunate for him his having done so. The crack of the breaking bar had been heard by the sentries, who came running round to discover the cause.“I’m sure I heard something,” said one of the two.“Bah! nothing of the kind. You must have been mistaken.”“I could swear to it—a noise like a blow with a stick, or the fall of a bundle of fagots.”“Oh, that was it! there’s the cause then, over your head; that window-shutter flapping in the wind.”“Ah! like enough it was. To the devil with the rickety old thing! What good does it do there, I wonder?”And the satisfied alarmist, following his less suspicions comrade, returned to the front. By the time they regained their respective posts, the prisoner had crept out of the dark ditch, and was skulking cautiously towards the cover—which he succeeded in reaching without further interrupting the tranquillity of their watch.
His jailer once gone out of the cell, the captive was left undisturbed to consider the plan of escape so unexpectedly proposed to him. The first question that occurred was: Who could the unknown writer be? It was evidently some one of a refined intelligence; the writing proved this, but more the method in which the instructions were conveyed. These were so cunningly conceived, and so clearly expressed, as to be quite intelligible to him for whom they were intended.
At first he thought of its being some plot on the part of Corvino—aruseto give the chief a chance of recapturing him, and so taking him in the act of attempting to escape.
Then came the reflection,Cui bono? Corvino could not want an excuse for taking his life. On the contrary, he had every reason for preserving it—at least until some definite answer about the ransom. If the demand should be again refused, the captive knew this would be plea sufficient for putting him to death. The threat of the brigand had been backed by the assurance given him in his conversation with the unfortunate Popetta. He no longer doubted of its being in earnest.
It could not be Corvino who had furnished him with the means of escape. Who then? Certainly not his own countryman. The renegade was his bitterest enemy—ever foremost in persecuting him. Of all the band, his thoughts now turned to Tommaso, simply because there was no other who had shown him the slightest sign of sympathy. Tommaso had done so, during the two days of his attendance; but then he presumed it to be at the instance of the signorina. She was dead; and her influence must have perished along with her. What further interest could the man have in him?
True, he seemed something different from his outlawed associates. He at least appeared less brutal than they—as if he had seen better days, and had not fallen so far below the normal condition of humanity. Henry Harding had noticed this during the slight communication held with him. Beside, there was evidence of it in the conversation he had heard under his window—in relation to the vile designs on Lucetta Torreani. But then—Tommaso’s motive for assisting him? And at such risk to himself! Death would be the reward of any of the band who might aid him in escape, or even connive at it—death sure and cruel. Why should Tommaso place himself in peril? What had he, Henry Harding, done to deserve the sympathy of this man? Nothing.
The last word in the letter of instruction now occurred to him—not the postscript, but the closing sentence of the epistle itself—“Save Lucetta Torreani!”
Was this the explanation? Could this be a clue to Tommaso’s conduct? If so, Tommaso was indeed the writer.
It was at all events an injunction calculated to stimulate the prisoner to action. The thought of the girl’s danger was never for a moment out of his mind. Now that this scheme was brought before him, he ceased his conjectures, and gave himself up to considering how he should carry out the design suggested in such a mysterious manner.
Plainly he could do nothing before night. Any attempt during daylight might be detected by his jailer, coming in with his food. The last meal having been brought him would be the cue for commencement.
During the day he was not idle. He made careful survey of his cell, chiefly the woodwork overhead. The boards appeared in a dilapidated condition, as if they would easily give way to the blade of a knife. His chagrin was great in discovering that the ceiling was too high to be reached—nearly a foot beyond the tips of his fingers, held aloft to their fullest stretch. This was indeed something to disconcert him.
He looked despairingly around the cell. There was nothing on which he could stand—neither stool nor stone—nothing to give him the necessary elevation. The chapter of instructions had been written in vain; the writer had not contemplated this difficulty in their fulfilment.
For a moment the captive believed he would have to abandon the scheme. It seemed impossible of execution.
Ingenuity becomes quickened under circumstances of dire necessity. In Henry Harding’s case this truth was illustrated. Once more scanning the floor of his cell, he perceived the litter of fern leaves that formed his stye-like couch. It might be possible to collect them into a lump, and so obtain the standpoint he required. In his mind he made a calculation of the quantity, and the probable height to which they would elevate him. He did not experiment practically, by massing the litter and so making a trial. Any disturbance of things might excite suspicion. That would be a task easily accomplished, and could be left to the last moment.
And to the last moment it was left. As soon as the morose attendant took his departure for the night—though without even the salutation “Buono notte”—the captive set about carrying out his design.
The fern leaves were collected into a heap and placed near the middle of the floor. He took great care in packing them, so as to form a firm cushion, and confining them within a small space, to increase the elevation. He had also observed the precaution, to select a spot under that part of the ceiling that appeared most assailable.
The stage erected, he mounted on it, knife in hand. He could just reach the boards with his blade; but this appeared enough, and he commenced making an incision. As he conjectured, the wood was half decayed with damp, or dry rot, and gave way before the knife, which by good luck was a sharp one. But he had not worked long, when he found his support sinking gradually beneath him; and, before he had accomplished the tenth part of his task, the fern footstool had become so flattened that he was unable to proceed. He descended to the floor, rearranged it, and then recommenced his cutting and carving. All in silence, or with the least noise possible; for there was his knowledge of a sharp-eared sentry in the ante-chamber, and another keeping guard close by the window of his cell.
Again the cushion sank, with only another fraction of the task accomplished. Again was it repadded; and the work proceeded for another short spell.
A new idea now helped him to keep on continuously. He took off his coat, folded it into a thick roll, placed it on the summit of the fern heap, and then set his feet upon it. This gave him a firmer pedestal to stand upon, enabling him to complete the task he had undertaken. In fine, he succeeded in cutting a trap-like hole through the floor-boards, big enough for his body to be passed through.
It was done before twelve o’clock. He could tell this by the brigands still keeping up their carousal outside. Hitherto the sound of their voices had favoured him, drowning any noise he might have made, otherwise audible to the sentries. Moreover, these were less on the alert during the earlier hours.
About midnight all sounds ceased, and the band seemed to have gone to sleep. It was time for him to continue the attempt at escape. Putting on his coat, he caught hold of one of the joists, and drew himself up through the hole he had cut. Above, as anticipated, he found himself in a sort of garret-loft.
He commenced groping around for some means of egress. At first he could find none, and supposed the space to be enclosed without any aperture. His head coming in contact with the roof, he perceived it to be a thatch of either straw or rushes. He was planning how he should cut his way through it, when a glimmer of light came under his eye, falling faintly along the floor.
Approaching the aperture where it was admitted, he discovered a sort of dormer window, without glass, but closed by a dilapidated shutter. There was no bar, and the shutter turned open to the outside. He looked cautiously through, and scanned the ground beneath, as also the premises adjoining. He saw that it was the back of the house, and that there were no others in the rear. There was no light, or anything, to show that human beings were astir.
He could perceive a clump of trees standing a short distance off, and others straggling up the sides of the mountain. If he could succeed in getting under this cover, without disturbing the men who kept guard over his cell, he would stand a good chance of escape, at least so far as the first line of sentries was concerned. As to those keeping the pass, that would be an enterprise altogether distinct. To get clear of his prison was the thing now to be thought of; and he proceeded to take his measures. How to creep through the dormer window and let himself down outside were naturally the first questions that suggested themselves.
The night was dark, though with a sky grey and starry. It was the sombre gloom that in all its obscurity shrouded the extinguished crater. He could not see the ground beneath; but, knowing how high he had climbed into the garret, the descent could not be a very deep one, unless indeed the house stood on the edge of some scarped elevation. The thought of this caused him to hesitate; and, once more craning his neck over the sill, he endeavoured to penetrate the obscurity below. But he could not see the ground, and as it would not do to remain any longer, he turned face inwards, and, backing through the window, let his legs drop down the wall. A wooden bar placed tranversely across the sill, seemed to offer the proper holding place for his hands. He grasped it to balance his body for the fall; but the treacherous support gave way, and he fell in such fashion as to throw him with violence on his shoulder.
He was stunned, and lay still—in what appeared to be the bottom of a drain or trench. Fortunate for him his having done so. The crack of the breaking bar had been heard by the sentries, who came running round to discover the cause.
“I’m sure I heard something,” said one of the two.
“Bah! nothing of the kind. You must have been mistaken.”
“I could swear to it—a noise like a blow with a stick, or the fall of a bundle of fagots.”
“Oh, that was it! there’s the cause then, over your head; that window-shutter flapping in the wind.”
“Ah! like enough it was. To the devil with the rickety old thing! What good does it do there, I wonder?”
And the satisfied alarmist, following his less suspicions comrade, returned to the front. By the time they regained their respective posts, the prisoner had crept out of the dark ditch, and was skulking cautiously towards the cover—which he succeeded in reaching without further interrupting the tranquillity of their watch.
Chapter Forty Four.Again in Prison.About two weeks had elapsed since the Papal soldiers first quartered themselves in the village of Val di Orno.The sun had sunk quietly down into the blue bosom of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and the villagers were most of them indoors. They were not desirous to encounter their military guests upon the streets by night, lest in the darkness the latter should mistake them for the enemy, and make free with any little pocket cash they might have, acquired during the tradings of the day.The captain of the protecting force was at the time seated in the best sitting-room of thesindico’shouse, making himself as agreeable as he could to thesindico’sdaughter—the father himself being present.The conversation, that had been carried on upon various themes, at length reverted to the brigands—as may be supposed, a stock topic in the village of Val di Orno. On this occasion it was special, relating to the captiveInglese; of whom, as a matter of course, Captain Count Guardiola had heard—having been officially furnished with the particulars of the affair on his first arrival in the town.“Povero!” half soliloquised Lucetta; “I wonder what has happened to him. Do you think, papa, they have set him free?”“I fear not,figlia mia. They will only do so when theriscattareaches them.”“Ah, me! How much do you think they will require?”“You speak, signorina,” interposed the Captain Count, “as if you had a mind to send the ransom yourself.”“Willingly—if I were able. That would I.”“You seem greatly interested in theInglese.Uno povero pittore!”The last words were uttered in a tone of sneering contempt.“Uno povero pittore!” repeated the girl, her eyes kindling with indignation. “Know, Signor Count Guardiola, that my brother isuno povero pittore; and proud of it too, as so am I, his sister.”“A thousand pardons, signorina; I did not know that your brother was an artist. I only meant that this poor devil of anIngleseafter all may be no artist, but a spy of that monster Mazzini! The thing isn’t at all improbable. Our last news tell us, that the arch-impostor has arrived in Genoa, whither he has come almost direct from England. This fellow may be one of his pilot fish, sent in advance to spy out the land. Perhaps he’s been rather fortunate in having fallen into the hands of the brigands. Should he come into my clutches, and I find any trace of the spy about him, I won’t wait for anyriscattabefore consigning his neck to a halter.”The indignation which was rising still higher in the breast of Lucetta Torreani, became more perceptible in the pallor of her cheeks and the quick flashing of her eyes. She was hindered from declaring it in speech. Before she could reply, a voice was heard outside the door, accompanied by a knock, as of some one seeking admission. This was granted; less by the host of the house than his military guest, who had by this this grown to regard himself as its master.The door was opened, and a sergeant stepped into the room, saluting as he did so. He was the orderly of the troop.“What is it?” inquired the officer.“A prisoner,” replied the man, making a second obeisance.“One of the bandits?”“No, signor captain; on the contrary, a man who pretends to have been their prisoner, and who says he has just escaped from them.”“What sort of man?”“A young fellow in the dress of acitiadino—un Inglese, I take him to be; though he speaks our tongue as well as myself.”Thesindicorose from his chair. Lucetta had already started from hers, with a joyous exclamation, at the wordInglese. The escaped captive could be no other than he of whom they had been lately speaking, and of whom also she had been long thinking.“Signor Torreani,” said the captain, turning towards his host with an air which showed that he too was gratified by the announcement, “I do not wish to disturb you in the performance of my duty. I shall go down-stairs to examine this prisoner my men have taken.”“It is not necessary,” said thesindico; “you are welcome to bring him up here.”“Oh, do!” added Lucetta. “Let him come in here. If you wish, I shall retire.”“Certainly not, signorina; that is, if you are not afraid to look upon one who has been a prisoner among banditti. If I mistake not, this is thepovero pittorein whom you have expressed yourself so much interested. Shall I order him to be brought in here?”It was evident that Guardiola wished it; so did Lucetta, from a different motive. The former intended to display his power in the presence of a prisoner, degraded by double captivity; the latter was inspired with an instinct for the stranger’s protection, and a secret partiality which she herself scarce understood.It ended by the sergeant conducting his prisoner into the room, who proved to be Henry Harding.The young Englishman seemed little surprised at the company to which he was introduced. But having just escaped from the keeping of brigands, he could ill comprehend why he should again be taken prisoner. That it was so, he had already been made aware by some rough treatment received at the hands of his new captors, who gave no heed either to his story or protestations.He saw that he was now in the presence of their commander. No doubt the interview would end in his being released.At a glance he had recognised the other occupants of the apartment. Thesindicohe had seen when passing through as the captive of the brigands. He well remembered him; but still better his daughter.And she remembered the captive. His bare head, for he was hatless, the brown locks tossed over his temples, the tattered surtout and trousers, his small feet almost shoeless—all thisdélabrementof dress and person did not conceal from the eyes of Lucetta Torreani the handsome face and manly form she had once before looked upon, and with an interest that had made a lasting impression upon her memory. Even in his rags he looked noble as ever. The very scantiness of his garments displayed the fine symmetry of his figure; while his face, flushed with defiant indignation, gave him the look of a young lion chafing at the toils once more cast around him. He was not tied, but he was not at liberty.At the same time he might have had reason to suppose himself in the presence of friends. He knew that the gentleman in civilian costume was the father of his friend Luigi; that the young lady was Luigi’s sister—that “little Lucetta,” of the increase in whose stature the letter had conjecturally spoken. And truly was she well grown, stately, statuesque—a fully-developed woman.Of course neither father nor daughter could know him. They had but seen him as a stranger—a captive to banditti.In presence of such company it was not the time to declare himself; though in a glance exchanged with Lucetta as he entered the room, he felt gratified to think that the sympathy once silently shown for him had not passed away.
About two weeks had elapsed since the Papal soldiers first quartered themselves in the village of Val di Orno.
The sun had sunk quietly down into the blue bosom of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and the villagers were most of them indoors. They were not desirous to encounter their military guests upon the streets by night, lest in the darkness the latter should mistake them for the enemy, and make free with any little pocket cash they might have, acquired during the tradings of the day.
The captain of the protecting force was at the time seated in the best sitting-room of thesindico’shouse, making himself as agreeable as he could to thesindico’sdaughter—the father himself being present.
The conversation, that had been carried on upon various themes, at length reverted to the brigands—as may be supposed, a stock topic in the village of Val di Orno. On this occasion it was special, relating to the captiveInglese; of whom, as a matter of course, Captain Count Guardiola had heard—having been officially furnished with the particulars of the affair on his first arrival in the town.
“Povero!” half soliloquised Lucetta; “I wonder what has happened to him. Do you think, papa, they have set him free?”
“I fear not,figlia mia. They will only do so when theriscattareaches them.”
“Ah, me! How much do you think they will require?”
“You speak, signorina,” interposed the Captain Count, “as if you had a mind to send the ransom yourself.”
“Willingly—if I were able. That would I.”
“You seem greatly interested in theInglese.Uno povero pittore!”
The last words were uttered in a tone of sneering contempt.
“Uno povero pittore!” repeated the girl, her eyes kindling with indignation. “Know, Signor Count Guardiola, that my brother isuno povero pittore; and proud of it too, as so am I, his sister.”
“A thousand pardons, signorina; I did not know that your brother was an artist. I only meant that this poor devil of anIngleseafter all may be no artist, but a spy of that monster Mazzini! The thing isn’t at all improbable. Our last news tell us, that the arch-impostor has arrived in Genoa, whither he has come almost direct from England. This fellow may be one of his pilot fish, sent in advance to spy out the land. Perhaps he’s been rather fortunate in having fallen into the hands of the brigands. Should he come into my clutches, and I find any trace of the spy about him, I won’t wait for anyriscattabefore consigning his neck to a halter.”
The indignation which was rising still higher in the breast of Lucetta Torreani, became more perceptible in the pallor of her cheeks and the quick flashing of her eyes. She was hindered from declaring it in speech. Before she could reply, a voice was heard outside the door, accompanied by a knock, as of some one seeking admission. This was granted; less by the host of the house than his military guest, who had by this this grown to regard himself as its master.
The door was opened, and a sergeant stepped into the room, saluting as he did so. He was the orderly of the troop.
“What is it?” inquired the officer.
“A prisoner,” replied the man, making a second obeisance.
“One of the bandits?”
“No, signor captain; on the contrary, a man who pretends to have been their prisoner, and who says he has just escaped from them.”
“What sort of man?”
“A young fellow in the dress of acitiadino—un Inglese, I take him to be; though he speaks our tongue as well as myself.”
Thesindicorose from his chair. Lucetta had already started from hers, with a joyous exclamation, at the wordInglese. The escaped captive could be no other than he of whom they had been lately speaking, and of whom also she had been long thinking.
“Signor Torreani,” said the captain, turning towards his host with an air which showed that he too was gratified by the announcement, “I do not wish to disturb you in the performance of my duty. I shall go down-stairs to examine this prisoner my men have taken.”
“It is not necessary,” said thesindico; “you are welcome to bring him up here.”
“Oh, do!” added Lucetta. “Let him come in here. If you wish, I shall retire.”
“Certainly not, signorina; that is, if you are not afraid to look upon one who has been a prisoner among banditti. If I mistake not, this is thepovero pittorein whom you have expressed yourself so much interested. Shall I order him to be brought in here?”
It was evident that Guardiola wished it; so did Lucetta, from a different motive. The former intended to display his power in the presence of a prisoner, degraded by double captivity; the latter was inspired with an instinct for the stranger’s protection, and a secret partiality which she herself scarce understood.
It ended by the sergeant conducting his prisoner into the room, who proved to be Henry Harding.
The young Englishman seemed little surprised at the company to which he was introduced. But having just escaped from the keeping of brigands, he could ill comprehend why he should again be taken prisoner. That it was so, he had already been made aware by some rough treatment received at the hands of his new captors, who gave no heed either to his story or protestations.
He saw that he was now in the presence of their commander. No doubt the interview would end in his being released.
At a glance he had recognised the other occupants of the apartment. Thesindicohe had seen when passing through as the captive of the brigands. He well remembered him; but still better his daughter.
And she remembered the captive. His bare head, for he was hatless, the brown locks tossed over his temples, the tattered surtout and trousers, his small feet almost shoeless—all thisdélabrementof dress and person did not conceal from the eyes of Lucetta Torreani the handsome face and manly form she had once before looked upon, and with an interest that had made a lasting impression upon her memory. Even in his rags he looked noble as ever. The very scantiness of his garments displayed the fine symmetry of his figure; while his face, flushed with defiant indignation, gave him the look of a young lion chafing at the toils once more cast around him. He was not tied, but he was not at liberty.
At the same time he might have had reason to suppose himself in the presence of friends. He knew that the gentleman in civilian costume was the father of his friend Luigi; that the young lady was Luigi’s sister—that “little Lucetta,” of the increase in whose stature the letter had conjecturally spoken. And truly was she well grown, stately, statuesque—a fully-developed woman.
Of course neither father nor daughter could know him. They had but seen him as a stranger—a captive to banditti.
In presence of such company it was not the time to declare himself; though in a glance exchanged with Lucetta as he entered the room, he felt gratified to think that the sympathy once silently shown for him had not passed away.
Chapter Forty Five.Consequential Swagger.Quickly and surreptitiously as was that glance exchanged between them—Henry Harding and thesindico’sdaughter—it did not escape the notice of Captain Guardiola. Warned by the conversation that had passed, he was watching for it. It gave him the cue for a swaggering exercise of his authority.“Where have you taken this ragged fellow?” asked he of the sergeant, nodding superciliously towards the prisoner.“We found him skulking into the town.”“Skulking!” cried the young Englishman, turning upon the man a look that caused him to quail. “And if I am a ragged fellow,” he continued, directing his speech to the officer, “it is not to your credit—much less that you should taunt me for it. If you and your valiant followers were to perform your duty a little more efficiently, there would have been less chance of my getting my clothes torn.”“Zitti! zitti!” hissed out the officer. “We don’t want such talk from you, fellow. Reserve your speech till you are questioned.”“It is my place to ask the first question. Why am I here a prisoner?”“That remains to be seen. Have you a passport?”“A rational interrogatory to put to a man who has just escaped out of the clutches of brigands!”“How are we to know that, signore?”“Well,” said the young man, “I assert it. And,” he continued, looking quizzically towards his own person, “I think my appearance should corroborate the assertion. But, if not, I shall make my appeal to the signorina here; whom, if I mistake not, I have had the honour of seeing before. She, perhaps, may remember me, since for some hours I had the misfortune to furnish her with a melancholy spectacle while stretched upon the pavement underneath her balcony.”“I do remember you!—I do, signore! Yes, papa, it is the same.”“And I also saw him, Captain Guardiola. He was carried through here by the bandits. He is the English artist of whom we have been just speaking.”“That may be,” rejoined Guardiola, with an incredulous smile. “Englishman, artist, and prisoner to the banditti—all these in one. But the gentleman may still have another character, not yet declared.”“What other?” demanded the gentleman in question. “Una spia.”“Spy!” echoed the prisoner. “For whom—and what purpose?”“Ah! that is just the question!” sarcastically rejoined Guardiola. “It is for me to discover it. If you’ll be frank, and declare yourself, you may perhaps get better treatment; besides, it may shorten the term of your imprisonment.”“My imprisonment! By what right, sir, do you talk to me of imprisonment? I am an Englishman; and you, I take it, are an officer in the Pope’s army—not a captain of banditti. Make me a prisoner, and it shall cost you dear.”“Cost what it may, signore, you are my prisoner; and shall remain so till I can ascertain in what character you have been travelling through these parts. Your story is suspicious. You have passed yourself off for an artist.”“I have not passed myself off for one, though I am so—in an humble sense. What has that to do with the affair?”“Much. Why should you, ‘un povero pittore’”—this was said sneeringly—“be straying out here in the mountains? If you are an English artist, as you say, you must have come to Italy to paint ruins and sculptures, not rocks and trees. What then is your errand up here? Answer me that, signore!”The young artist hesitated. Should he make a clean breast of it, and declare his errand? Had the time come? Why should he not? He was in a dilemma, out of which he might escape more easily than he had done from the brigands’ den. Why should he prolong the continuance of his second captivity?—for it was clear that the officer intended continuing it. A word would release him—so, at least, he presumed. There seemed no reason why it should not be spoken. After a moment’s reflection, he determined on speaking it.“Signor Captain,” said he, “if in the execution of your duty you must necessarily know why I am here, you shall be welcome to the information. Perhaps my answer may give surprise to the Signor Francesco Torreani, and also to the Signorina Lucetta!”“What!Signor Inglese!” exclaimed thesindico’sdaughter, “you know our names then?”“I do, signorina.”“From whom have you heard them?” inquired the father.“From your son.”“My son! He is in London.”“Just so; and it was there I first heard of the Signor Francesco Torreani and his daughter, the Signorina Lucetta.”“You astonish us. You know Luigi then?”“As well as one man may know another who for twelve months has been his daily companion; who has shared his apartment and his studio, who—”“Saved his purse—perhaps his life,” interrupted thesindico, approaching the Englishman, and warmly grasping his hand. “If I mistake not, you are the young gentleman who rescued my son from thieves, London bandits. It is you of whom Luigi has often written to us. Am I right in my conjecture, signore?”“Oh yes!” exclaimed Lucetta, also coming nearer, and contemplating the stranger with renewed interest. “I’m sure it is, papa. He is so like the description brother Luigi has given of him.”“Thanks, signorina,” answered the young artist, with a smile. “I hope you except my habiliments. As for my identity, Signor Torreani, I might have been better able to establish that, but for my kind friend Corvino; who, not satisfied with taking the little cash I had, has also stripped me of the letter of introduction I brought from your son. I intended to have presented it in person, but have been hindered by the circumstances of which you are already aware.”“But why did you not make yourself known to me while you were here?”“I did not then know you, signore. I was even ignorant of the name of the town into which my captors had carried me. I had not then the slightest idea that its chief magistrate was the father of Luigi Torreani—much less that the fair young lady I saw standing in a balcony was the sister of my dearest friend.”At the conclusion of this complimentary speech, Lucetta’s cheek showed a slight tinge of red—as if from some souvenir of that balcony scene.“What a pity,” said thesindico, “I did not know this before! I might have done something to get you off.”“Thanks, Signor Torreani. But it would have cost you dearly—at least 30,000 scudi.”“Thirty thousand scudi!” exclaimed the company.“You put a high price upon yourself,signor pittore?” sneeringly insinuated the officer.“It is the exact sum fixed by Corvino.”“He must have mistaken you for somemilord. I suppose he has discovered his error, and let you off scot free?”“Yes; and finger free too,” rejoined the escaped captive in a jovial tone—as he said so presenting his left hand to the gaze of the company.Lucetta screamed; while her father leant forward, and examined the mutilated hand with a compassionate air.“Yes,” he said; “this is indeed a proof that I could have done little for you. But tell us, signore! How did you escape from those cruel wretches?”“Time enough for that to-morrow,” interposed Guardiola, who seemed stung with the sympathy the stranger was receiving. “Sergeant!” he continued, turning to the soldier, “this interview has lasted long enough, and to little profit. You can take your prisoner back to the guard-house. I shall examine him more minutely in the morning.”“Prisoner still?” was the surprised interrogatory of thesindicoand his daughter.“I warn you against what you are doing,” said the Englishman, addressing himself to the officer. “You will find that even your master, the Pope, will not be able to screen you from punishment for this outrage on a British subject.”“And your master, Giuseppe Mazzini, will not be able to protect you for acting as a revolutionary spy, Signore Inglese.”“Mazzini! Revolutionary spy! What do you mean?”“I think, Captain Guardiola,” interposed thesindico, “you are altogether mistaken about this young man. He is no spy; but an honest Englishgalantuomo—the friend of my son, Luigi. I shall be answerable for him.”“I must do my duty, Signor Torreani. Sergeant! do yours. Take your prisoner back to the guard, and see that you bring him before me in the morning.”The order was obeyed. The prisoner offered no resistance to it. There were other soldiers outside the door; and, as any attempt to escape would have been idle, Henry Harding had to submit to this additional degradation. He did not leave the room before exchanging a look with Lucetta that consoled him for the insult, and another with Captain Count Guardiola, that disturbed his countship’s equanimity for the remainder of the evening.
Quickly and surreptitiously as was that glance exchanged between them—Henry Harding and thesindico’sdaughter—it did not escape the notice of Captain Guardiola. Warned by the conversation that had passed, he was watching for it. It gave him the cue for a swaggering exercise of his authority.
“Where have you taken this ragged fellow?” asked he of the sergeant, nodding superciliously towards the prisoner.
“We found him skulking into the town.”
“Skulking!” cried the young Englishman, turning upon the man a look that caused him to quail. “And if I am a ragged fellow,” he continued, directing his speech to the officer, “it is not to your credit—much less that you should taunt me for it. If you and your valiant followers were to perform your duty a little more efficiently, there would have been less chance of my getting my clothes torn.”
“Zitti! zitti!” hissed out the officer. “We don’t want such talk from you, fellow. Reserve your speech till you are questioned.”
“It is my place to ask the first question. Why am I here a prisoner?”
“That remains to be seen. Have you a passport?”
“A rational interrogatory to put to a man who has just escaped out of the clutches of brigands!”
“How are we to know that, signore?”
“Well,” said the young man, “I assert it. And,” he continued, looking quizzically towards his own person, “I think my appearance should corroborate the assertion. But, if not, I shall make my appeal to the signorina here; whom, if I mistake not, I have had the honour of seeing before. She, perhaps, may remember me, since for some hours I had the misfortune to furnish her with a melancholy spectacle while stretched upon the pavement underneath her balcony.”
“I do remember you!—I do, signore! Yes, papa, it is the same.”
“And I also saw him, Captain Guardiola. He was carried through here by the bandits. He is the English artist of whom we have been just speaking.”
“That may be,” rejoined Guardiola, with an incredulous smile. “Englishman, artist, and prisoner to the banditti—all these in one. But the gentleman may still have another character, not yet declared.”
“What other?” demanded the gentleman in question. “Una spia.”
“Spy!” echoed the prisoner. “For whom—and what purpose?”
“Ah! that is just the question!” sarcastically rejoined Guardiola. “It is for me to discover it. If you’ll be frank, and declare yourself, you may perhaps get better treatment; besides, it may shorten the term of your imprisonment.”
“My imprisonment! By what right, sir, do you talk to me of imprisonment? I am an Englishman; and you, I take it, are an officer in the Pope’s army—not a captain of banditti. Make me a prisoner, and it shall cost you dear.”
“Cost what it may, signore, you are my prisoner; and shall remain so till I can ascertain in what character you have been travelling through these parts. Your story is suspicious. You have passed yourself off for an artist.”
“I have not passed myself off for one, though I am so—in an humble sense. What has that to do with the affair?”
“Much. Why should you, ‘un povero pittore’”—this was said sneeringly—“be straying out here in the mountains? If you are an English artist, as you say, you must have come to Italy to paint ruins and sculptures, not rocks and trees. What then is your errand up here? Answer me that, signore!”
The young artist hesitated. Should he make a clean breast of it, and declare his errand? Had the time come? Why should he not? He was in a dilemma, out of which he might escape more easily than he had done from the brigands’ den. Why should he prolong the continuance of his second captivity?—for it was clear that the officer intended continuing it. A word would release him—so, at least, he presumed. There seemed no reason why it should not be spoken. After a moment’s reflection, he determined on speaking it.
“Signor Captain,” said he, “if in the execution of your duty you must necessarily know why I am here, you shall be welcome to the information. Perhaps my answer may give surprise to the Signor Francesco Torreani, and also to the Signorina Lucetta!”
“What!Signor Inglese!” exclaimed thesindico’sdaughter, “you know our names then?”
“I do, signorina.”
“From whom have you heard them?” inquired the father.
“From your son.”
“My son! He is in London.”
“Just so; and it was there I first heard of the Signor Francesco Torreani and his daughter, the Signorina Lucetta.”
“You astonish us. You know Luigi then?”
“As well as one man may know another who for twelve months has been his daily companion; who has shared his apartment and his studio, who—”
“Saved his purse—perhaps his life,” interrupted thesindico, approaching the Englishman, and warmly grasping his hand. “If I mistake not, you are the young gentleman who rescued my son from thieves, London bandits. It is you of whom Luigi has often written to us. Am I right in my conjecture, signore?”
“Oh yes!” exclaimed Lucetta, also coming nearer, and contemplating the stranger with renewed interest. “I’m sure it is, papa. He is so like the description brother Luigi has given of him.”
“Thanks, signorina,” answered the young artist, with a smile. “I hope you except my habiliments. As for my identity, Signor Torreani, I might have been better able to establish that, but for my kind friend Corvino; who, not satisfied with taking the little cash I had, has also stripped me of the letter of introduction I brought from your son. I intended to have presented it in person, but have been hindered by the circumstances of which you are already aware.”
“But why did you not make yourself known to me while you were here?”
“I did not then know you, signore. I was even ignorant of the name of the town into which my captors had carried me. I had not then the slightest idea that its chief magistrate was the father of Luigi Torreani—much less that the fair young lady I saw standing in a balcony was the sister of my dearest friend.”
At the conclusion of this complimentary speech, Lucetta’s cheek showed a slight tinge of red—as if from some souvenir of that balcony scene.
“What a pity,” said thesindico, “I did not know this before! I might have done something to get you off.”
“Thanks, Signor Torreani. But it would have cost you dearly—at least 30,000 scudi.”
“Thirty thousand scudi!” exclaimed the company.
“You put a high price upon yourself,signor pittore?” sneeringly insinuated the officer.
“It is the exact sum fixed by Corvino.”
“He must have mistaken you for somemilord. I suppose he has discovered his error, and let you off scot free?”
“Yes; and finger free too,” rejoined the escaped captive in a jovial tone—as he said so presenting his left hand to the gaze of the company.
Lucetta screamed; while her father leant forward, and examined the mutilated hand with a compassionate air.
“Yes,” he said; “this is indeed a proof that I could have done little for you. But tell us, signore! How did you escape from those cruel wretches?”
“Time enough for that to-morrow,” interposed Guardiola, who seemed stung with the sympathy the stranger was receiving. “Sergeant!” he continued, turning to the soldier, “this interview has lasted long enough, and to little profit. You can take your prisoner back to the guard-house. I shall examine him more minutely in the morning.”
“Prisoner still?” was the surprised interrogatory of thesindicoand his daughter.
“I warn you against what you are doing,” said the Englishman, addressing himself to the officer. “You will find that even your master, the Pope, will not be able to screen you from punishment for this outrage on a British subject.”
“And your master, Giuseppe Mazzini, will not be able to protect you for acting as a revolutionary spy, Signore Inglese.”
“Mazzini! Revolutionary spy! What do you mean?”
“I think, Captain Guardiola,” interposed thesindico, “you are altogether mistaken about this young man. He is no spy; but an honest Englishgalantuomo—the friend of my son, Luigi. I shall be answerable for him.”
“I must do my duty, Signor Torreani. Sergeant! do yours. Take your prisoner back to the guard, and see that you bring him before me in the morning.”
The order was obeyed. The prisoner offered no resistance to it. There were other soldiers outside the door; and, as any attempt to escape would have been idle, Henry Harding had to submit to this additional degradation. He did not leave the room before exchanging a look with Lucetta that consoled him for the insult, and another with Captain Count Guardiola, that disturbed his countship’s equanimity for the remainder of the evening.
Chapter Forty Six.Alone with Lucetta Torreani.Next morning Captain Guardiola was in a somewhat different frame of mind. On examination of the prisoner, he could find no proof of the latter being a spy; on the contrary, there was ample evidence of his story being true. A score of the townsmen could identify him as having been in the hands of the banditti. Indeed, this was not doubted by any one; and the fact of his being anInglesewas in his favour. Why should an Englishman be meddling in the political affairs of the country?The commandant saw that to detain him might end in trouble to himself. He was too intelligent not to understand the power of the English Government, even in the affairs of Italy; and, looking forward to future events, thought it safe upon the whole to release the artist; which he at length did, under pretence of doing an act of grace to thesindico, who had renewed his intercession on the young Englishman’s behalf.Henry Harding was once more free. Not a little to the disgust of Guardiola, he became thesindico’sguest. But there was no help for it, unless by an act of authority too arbitrary to be passed over without investigation; and the Captain Count was compelled to swallow his chagrin with the best grace he could.By chance there was a spare suit of clothes, left by Luigi on his setting out for England. They were of thecacciatorecut, too fantastic for the streets of London; for this reason they had been left behind. They were just the sort for the mountains of the Romagna, and of a size to suit the young Englishman, fitting him as if he had been measured for them by the Italian tailor who made them.The Signor Torreani insisted upon his receiving them. He could not well refuse, considering the state of dilapidation to which his own had been reduced, and the necessity of making a decent appearance as guest of the donor. An hour after his release from the guard-house he was seen in velvet jacket, buttoned breeches, and gaiters ofcacciatorecut, with a plumed Calabrian hat upon his head—bearing resemblance in almost everything, except physiognomy, to a brigand!The costume became him. Lucetta smiled at seeing him in his new dress. She was pleased with his appearance. He reminded her of brother Luigi. And then he was called upon for the story of his adventures among the bandits—from the date of his capture to that of his second arrival in the town. Of course only such details were given as were fitted for the ear of a young lady. The mode of his escape from the cell was particularly inquired into, and related. Some expressions in the destroyed letter of Tommaso, and which Henry Harding intended soon to communicate to thesindicohimself, were kept back—along with that other intelligence which had been his chief motive for making escape.His auditors—there were both father and daughter present at this interview—were strangely interested when he spoke of the mysterious interference on his behalf. Who could have helped him to the knife? Who could have written the letter of instructions? He did not say anything to assist them in their conjectures, nor even mention the name of Tommaso. All that was for the ears of thesindicohimself, and at another time.He merely described the cutting his passage through the floor above his cell—his dropping from the dormer window—the alarm caused to the sentinels, and its instant subsidence. He told them, too, how he had succeeded in passing the first vidette, stationed at the top of the gorge, by crawling on his hands and knees; how he had got so close to the other as to perceive that passing him in the same way would be impossible; how, knife in hand, he had stood for a time half determined to take the man’s life; how he had recoiled from the shedding of blood; how, concealing himself in some bushes, he had remained wakeful till daylight; had seen the second sentry pass up the hill; and then, unseen himself, had continued his retreat. As good luck would have it, a filmy haze was hanging over the valley, under the curtain of which he had escaped. Otherwise he would have been seen, either by the vidette above, or the night-sentinel on his return to the rendezvous. He could not tell whether he had been pursued—of course he had been, though not immediately. It was not likely he was missed till an advanced hour in the morning, and then he was far on his way. Fortunately, he remembered the road by which the brigands had taken him, and kept along with eager celerity, inspired not only by the peril of his own situation, but that of those to whom he was now describing his escape. He had finally reached the skirts of the town a little after nightfall, once more to be made a prisoner. And, once more released, he was in a fair way of again getting into chains, somewhat less irksome to endure. This, however, did not form part of his confession.The conversation now turned upon Luigi; but this was in a dialogue between the young Englishman and Lucetta—thesindicohaving gone out on business of the town.Need we say that Lucetta Torreani was very fond of her only brother? How was Luigi in health? How did he likeInglaterra? Was he making much progress in his profession? These, with a score of like questions, were rapidly asked and answered; and then a detailed description had to be given of that episode which had introduced the two young men to one another, with something of their after association. And then there was a sly inquiry as to what Luigi thought of the English ladies, with their blonde complexions and bright golden hair, so different from the daughters ofItalia. And there was a hint about a young lady in Rome, a sort of semi-cousin of the Torreanis to whom Luigioughtto be true. Would it be right for a young man to marry away out of his own country? And did the signore believe that there was any sin in marriages between people of his own faith—he had confessed himself a Protestant—and those of Holy Church?These and other topics—perhaps few so pleasant—were talked of; the young Italian girl asking questions, and giving answers, with thatnaïvetéso charming to the listener.It so charmed Henry Harding, that, before he had passed a single day in her company, he could look back on Buckinghamshire and Belle Mainwaring without a shadow of regret. He was in a fair way of forgetting both.That same night the escaped prisoner completed the revelation he had to make to thesindicoalone; first telling him what he had learnt about the designs of Corvino upon his daughter, as also how he had learnt it; then of the letter he had himself written to Luigi, urging the latter to hasten home.Thesindico, though pained, was not much surprised by the first part of this strange communication. As is known, he had already received warning. It was the letter to his son, written under such circumstances, that filled him alike with surprise and gratitude. With warm words, he thanked the young Englishman for his generous and thoughtful interference.During the explanation, a point that had hitherto puzzled the escaped captive found a presumptive solution. He had all along wondered who could have been his mysterious protector. Who had furnished the knife, with the chapter of instructions that accompanied it? At the mention of the name of Tommaso, thesindicostarted, as if having guessed the hidden hand that had interfered in their favour. On a further description of the man, he felt sure of it. An old retainer of the Torreanis, who had held service in the Pontifical army; had fallen into evil ways; had been thrown into a Roman dungeon from which he had escaped; and no doubt had afterwards found an asylum among the mountain bands. This was the probable explanation of Tommaso’s conduct—a long-remembered gratitude for services thesindicohad rendered him.The latter now acknowledged the danger in which his daughter was placed, and the necessity of steps being taken to avert it. He had already determined on removing from the place, and taking hispenatesalong with him. In truth, he had that very day concluded the sale of his estate; and was now free to go in quest of a new home—to whatever part of the world where it might be found.Meanwhile, there was no immediate danger; the Papal soldiers intended staying some time in the town. Thesindicocould retain his situation of chief magistrate, and await the arrival of his son, who, if the post kept true to time, might be expected in a day or two.To hear that Luigi was coming home was news to his sister. How had her father heard it? There had been no letter from London—no message from Rome. It was a mystery to Lucetta; and for reasons was permitted to remain so. But why need she care to unravel it, so long as he was coming home? And so soon too! And the time would not seem long, since his friend was there, and she could talk to him about Luigi. It had become pleasant to converse about her dear brother, with her dear brother’s friend; and once again were the same questions asked, as to how Luigi looked, and lived, and prospered at his painting; and whether he was given to admiring the English girls; and would it be wrong for him, a Catholic, to marry one, or would it be wrong the other way? and so were the artless interrogatories repeated.These were pleasant conversations, but it was not pleasant to have them interrupted, as they usually were, by Captain Guardiola. Why should the officer force himself into their company—as he daily, hourly did? Why did he not take his soldiers—as he ought to have done—and go after the brigands? He could easily have found their hiding-place among the hills. Their late captive, still burning with indignation at the treatment he had endured—frantic when he looked at his left hand—would have gladly guided him to the spot. He proposed doing this. His proposal was not only received with coldness, but repelled with an insolence that kept the blood warm and bad between Guardiola and himself. From that time there was no communication between them—even when brought together in attendance upon Lucetta.Both were with her, upon the ridge that rose directly over the town. There was a cave upon the summit of the hill, that had once been the abode of an anchorite. It was one of the curiosities of the neighbourhood; and the young lady, at her father’s suggestion, had invited her father’s English guest to go up with her and see it. The invitation was not extended to the other guest—the Captain Count. For all that he invited himself, under pretence of lending his protection to the signorina. His escort, though not asked for, could not well be refused; and the three proceeded to climb the hill.Guardiola was beside himself with jealousy. In his heart he was cursing the young Englishman; and could he have found an excuse for pushing him over a cliff, or running him through with the sword that hung by his side, he would have done either on the instant.
Next morning Captain Guardiola was in a somewhat different frame of mind. On examination of the prisoner, he could find no proof of the latter being a spy; on the contrary, there was ample evidence of his story being true. A score of the townsmen could identify him as having been in the hands of the banditti. Indeed, this was not doubted by any one; and the fact of his being anInglesewas in his favour. Why should an Englishman be meddling in the political affairs of the country?
The commandant saw that to detain him might end in trouble to himself. He was too intelligent not to understand the power of the English Government, even in the affairs of Italy; and, looking forward to future events, thought it safe upon the whole to release the artist; which he at length did, under pretence of doing an act of grace to thesindico, who had renewed his intercession on the young Englishman’s behalf.
Henry Harding was once more free. Not a little to the disgust of Guardiola, he became thesindico’sguest. But there was no help for it, unless by an act of authority too arbitrary to be passed over without investigation; and the Captain Count was compelled to swallow his chagrin with the best grace he could.
By chance there was a spare suit of clothes, left by Luigi on his setting out for England. They were of thecacciatorecut, too fantastic for the streets of London; for this reason they had been left behind. They were just the sort for the mountains of the Romagna, and of a size to suit the young Englishman, fitting him as if he had been measured for them by the Italian tailor who made them.
The Signor Torreani insisted upon his receiving them. He could not well refuse, considering the state of dilapidation to which his own had been reduced, and the necessity of making a decent appearance as guest of the donor. An hour after his release from the guard-house he was seen in velvet jacket, buttoned breeches, and gaiters ofcacciatorecut, with a plumed Calabrian hat upon his head—bearing resemblance in almost everything, except physiognomy, to a brigand!
The costume became him. Lucetta smiled at seeing him in his new dress. She was pleased with his appearance. He reminded her of brother Luigi. And then he was called upon for the story of his adventures among the bandits—from the date of his capture to that of his second arrival in the town. Of course only such details were given as were fitted for the ear of a young lady. The mode of his escape from the cell was particularly inquired into, and related. Some expressions in the destroyed letter of Tommaso, and which Henry Harding intended soon to communicate to thesindicohimself, were kept back—along with that other intelligence which had been his chief motive for making escape.
His auditors—there were both father and daughter present at this interview—were strangely interested when he spoke of the mysterious interference on his behalf. Who could have helped him to the knife? Who could have written the letter of instructions? He did not say anything to assist them in their conjectures, nor even mention the name of Tommaso. All that was for the ears of thesindicohimself, and at another time.
He merely described the cutting his passage through the floor above his cell—his dropping from the dormer window—the alarm caused to the sentinels, and its instant subsidence. He told them, too, how he had succeeded in passing the first vidette, stationed at the top of the gorge, by crawling on his hands and knees; how he had got so close to the other as to perceive that passing him in the same way would be impossible; how, knife in hand, he had stood for a time half determined to take the man’s life; how he had recoiled from the shedding of blood; how, concealing himself in some bushes, he had remained wakeful till daylight; had seen the second sentry pass up the hill; and then, unseen himself, had continued his retreat. As good luck would have it, a filmy haze was hanging over the valley, under the curtain of which he had escaped. Otherwise he would have been seen, either by the vidette above, or the night-sentinel on his return to the rendezvous. He could not tell whether he had been pursued—of course he had been, though not immediately. It was not likely he was missed till an advanced hour in the morning, and then he was far on his way. Fortunately, he remembered the road by which the brigands had taken him, and kept along with eager celerity, inspired not only by the peril of his own situation, but that of those to whom he was now describing his escape. He had finally reached the skirts of the town a little after nightfall, once more to be made a prisoner. And, once more released, he was in a fair way of again getting into chains, somewhat less irksome to endure. This, however, did not form part of his confession.
The conversation now turned upon Luigi; but this was in a dialogue between the young Englishman and Lucetta—thesindicohaving gone out on business of the town.
Need we say that Lucetta Torreani was very fond of her only brother? How was Luigi in health? How did he likeInglaterra? Was he making much progress in his profession? These, with a score of like questions, were rapidly asked and answered; and then a detailed description had to be given of that episode which had introduced the two young men to one another, with something of their after association. And then there was a sly inquiry as to what Luigi thought of the English ladies, with their blonde complexions and bright golden hair, so different from the daughters ofItalia. And there was a hint about a young lady in Rome, a sort of semi-cousin of the Torreanis to whom Luigioughtto be true. Would it be right for a young man to marry away out of his own country? And did the signore believe that there was any sin in marriages between people of his own faith—he had confessed himself a Protestant—and those of Holy Church?
These and other topics—perhaps few so pleasant—were talked of; the young Italian girl asking questions, and giving answers, with thatnaïvetéso charming to the listener.
It so charmed Henry Harding, that, before he had passed a single day in her company, he could look back on Buckinghamshire and Belle Mainwaring without a shadow of regret. He was in a fair way of forgetting both.
That same night the escaped prisoner completed the revelation he had to make to thesindicoalone; first telling him what he had learnt about the designs of Corvino upon his daughter, as also how he had learnt it; then of the letter he had himself written to Luigi, urging the latter to hasten home.
Thesindico, though pained, was not much surprised by the first part of this strange communication. As is known, he had already received warning. It was the letter to his son, written under such circumstances, that filled him alike with surprise and gratitude. With warm words, he thanked the young Englishman for his generous and thoughtful interference.
During the explanation, a point that had hitherto puzzled the escaped captive found a presumptive solution. He had all along wondered who could have been his mysterious protector. Who had furnished the knife, with the chapter of instructions that accompanied it? At the mention of the name of Tommaso, thesindicostarted, as if having guessed the hidden hand that had interfered in their favour. On a further description of the man, he felt sure of it. An old retainer of the Torreanis, who had held service in the Pontifical army; had fallen into evil ways; had been thrown into a Roman dungeon from which he had escaped; and no doubt had afterwards found an asylum among the mountain bands. This was the probable explanation of Tommaso’s conduct—a long-remembered gratitude for services thesindicohad rendered him.
The latter now acknowledged the danger in which his daughter was placed, and the necessity of steps being taken to avert it. He had already determined on removing from the place, and taking hispenatesalong with him. In truth, he had that very day concluded the sale of his estate; and was now free to go in quest of a new home—to whatever part of the world where it might be found.
Meanwhile, there was no immediate danger; the Papal soldiers intended staying some time in the town. Thesindicocould retain his situation of chief magistrate, and await the arrival of his son, who, if the post kept true to time, might be expected in a day or two.
To hear that Luigi was coming home was news to his sister. How had her father heard it? There had been no letter from London—no message from Rome. It was a mystery to Lucetta; and for reasons was permitted to remain so. But why need she care to unravel it, so long as he was coming home? And so soon too! And the time would not seem long, since his friend was there, and she could talk to him about Luigi. It had become pleasant to converse about her dear brother, with her dear brother’s friend; and once again were the same questions asked, as to how Luigi looked, and lived, and prospered at his painting; and whether he was given to admiring the English girls; and would it be wrong for him, a Catholic, to marry one, or would it be wrong the other way? and so were the artless interrogatories repeated.
These were pleasant conversations, but it was not pleasant to have them interrupted, as they usually were, by Captain Guardiola. Why should the officer force himself into their company—as he daily, hourly did? Why did he not take his soldiers—as he ought to have done—and go after the brigands? He could easily have found their hiding-place among the hills. Their late captive, still burning with indignation at the treatment he had endured—frantic when he looked at his left hand—would have gladly guided him to the spot. He proposed doing this. His proposal was not only received with coldness, but repelled with an insolence that kept the blood warm and bad between Guardiola and himself. From that time there was no communication between them—even when brought together in attendance upon Lucetta.
Both were with her, upon the ridge that rose directly over the town. There was a cave upon the summit of the hill, that had once been the abode of an anchorite. It was one of the curiosities of the neighbourhood; and the young lady, at her father’s suggestion, had invited her father’s English guest to go up with her and see it. The invitation was not extended to the other guest—the Captain Count. For all that he invited himself, under pretence of lending his protection to the signorina. His escort, though not asked for, could not well be refused; and the three proceeded to climb the hill.
Guardiola was beside himself with jealousy. In his heart he was cursing the young Englishman; and could he have found an excuse for pushing him over a cliff, or running him through with the sword that hung by his side, he would have done either on the instant.